


Harold's Favorite Color

by elbowsinsidethedoor



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, John did not die!, M/M, god help me -- another bathroom scene!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-08-14 13:11:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8015347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elbowsinsidethedoor/pseuds/elbowsinsidethedoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After shedding some tears over I Chose You, by Tipsylex, I realized I needed a quick fix for the renewed agony of John's death. It's my first attempt at a fix-it. My usual way is to "ignore it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There is no happy ending for me here, Harold thought, stopping in the piazza under the brilliant blue sky.

He saw Grace in the distance but felt unable to take another step toward her. He hardly understood how he'd come to be here, how he'd thought the past could be resurrected.

The man Grace Hendricks loved, the man who had loved her … that man, that self, no longer existed. As dear a sight as she was, painting in the sunshine, to approach any closer seemed as impossible as entering a scene from a movie. It didn't touch who he was or his sense of where he belonged. 

The person his eyes hungered for was a tall, broad-shouldered man whose face, when it rose in his mind filled his heart with longing and choked his throat with anguish. A face that he knew better than he knew his own.

I've lost him, Harold thought, and at the end I couldn't even say that I loved him. Harold was fighting tears, suppressing a gasp of pain. This city is wrong. The light is wrong. This person. 

He groaned aloud and Italy vanished.

"Help me," he tried to say but heard only a guttural sound and pain stabbed his throat.

"Harold," an urgent whisper. "Lie still. I'm here. Shaw!" John called out.

John? He blinked tears and tried to focus, pulling air in as well as he could through his nose, past his dry throat. John. So real. Harold was awash in tears, his throat closing around some horrible thing, some sort of tube.

"Easy, easy," John murmured. Real. So close. He could see his friend's face was rough, unshaved, careworn, but his eyes were shiny with affection and … relief. Harold realized that he was in the safe house, in the hospital bed. Italy was a dream. "You're recovering from surgery," John said.

Alive, Harold thought. He's alive … and a fresh welling of tears rolled down the sides of his face. "I thought I'd lost you," he wanted to say. Already the reality of the dream was beginning to lose its grip. But what of his understanding? It was important to remember, he needed to hold on to what he'd understood … in Italy.

Harold fought to remain conscious but lost.

***

A sliver of light.

"You're back," he heard John say. Hearing this voice, Harold dared to open his eyes. He swallowed and with great relief found there was no obstruction in his throat though it still felt dry. "Are you thirsty? Shaw said you could have some ice chips."

"My … glasses," Harold whispered. More than anything he wanted to see his friend, to see him whole, unharmed. He squinted through the lenses when they were in place. John was real. He looked a little tired but was closely-shaved, recently, Harold thought. The shirt looked fresh. His expression was one Harold knew well; a hint of fond amusement. Harold felt the wealth of it, the depth of affection in it.

"Now that you can see me … would you like some ice?"

Harold nodded. Whatever was to come with waking, there was nothing he couldn't bear as long as he had this. John's fingers were steady, spooning the ice into his mouth. It was heaven to feel it melt on his tongue.

Samaritan. The missile? He frowned and a ripple of fear touched him.

"How?" he rasped the word, trying to speak.

"You want to know how we got off that roof?"

We? That made no sense.

"You. I walked away and you … " Harold couldn't finish, a fresh onslaught of tears threatening to choke him. John was frowning.

"Harold, you didn't walk away. You were shot. You almost died." Harold became aware that John was stroking his arm.

"We were together?" Harold whispered. He felt so confused.

"I tried to leave you behind … but you were stubborn."

"I was on the wrong roof," he struggled to say, trying to grasp the details he remembered. "Root was there." But Root was gone. Somehow Root and the machine had blended and stayed with him. It couldn't have been real ... and yet the feelings were so powerful. "I saw you smile from a distance and knew there was no chance to save you, to stop you." Harold's throat ached but the tears that flowed with uttering these words helped him swallow. He lifted a hand to wipe his eyes and it was tugged by the IV.

"Here, Finch." John put a soft pocket square in his other hand. Harold recognized it as an old one of his. Soft, familiar. Touching it, he thought, this one needs to be retired. In fact, he was quite certain he had retired it … nothing this worn would have remained in his wardrobe. He wondered how John had come to have it.

"What are you doing with this old thing?" he asked. John gave him a long look and a shrug.

Harold became aware of the pain. He controlled his grimace but John was watching him closely.

"Try not to move too much," he said. "There's a drip … you can control it if you need more."

"No. I'd like to stay awake."

"Ice?" John asked. He nodded and accepted the spoonful. He gazed into his friend's eyes, studied the beloved face … and remembered, Italy. It was imperative that John know how he felt.

"I love you." He made himself say it, the words had to be spoken before he lost the courage he'd found under the imagined Italian sun.

"Tell me something I don't know, Finch." His gaze was oddly indulgent, teasing. Harold's heartbeat quickened.

"My favorite color," he said.

"Figured that out ... but I've been saving it," he said.

"Impossible," Harold whispered. He didn't have a favorite color.

"Sable," John said, looking pleased with himself. "I heard you on the phone with your tailor. The way you said it. I could tell."

Harold drew in a deep breath. He adored this color, the darkest, richest shade of brown, bordering on black. Was it his favorite? If it wasn't before, it was now. He found John's hand near his on the bed and squeezed it. A lovely, strong hand.

"I love you, John," he said again. Already it felt like the most established fact in the universe.

"I'm pretty fond of you too, Harold."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it was a one and done story but I think there is one more chapter to write after this one!

Recuperating from a gun shot wound to the thigh was going to be a long and demanding process. Harold knew it but didn't fear it or feel impatient. He'd gone through worse, much worse in his life. The wounds he'd suffered in the ferry explosion had been less debilitating in their immediate effect but had crippled him in the long run, emotionally as much as physically. That event had been soul-crushing. He'd faced it alone and in mourning. Now he had the daily joy of John's survival and his company.

The focus of his life contracted dramatically. The moment to moment concerns were almost entirely personal. It was a new life on a much smaller scale. John told him the machine had survived but for Harold it existed at a remove. The mantle of responsibility had been taken from his shoulders with the destruction of Samaritan.

John was always present or close by. Harold slept a great deal; at first it seemed to him he woke up only to ingest rounds of medication. Sometimes there was another familiar face, Shaw's or Fusco's that he'd register before he fell back to sleep. Usually it was John's face and … touch.

John had a military matter-of-factness when it came to the body, its wounds and scars, to its needs. Harold trusted his handling and felt no body shyness with him. He felt equally trusting of Shaw, surrendering to her steady hands when she removed his catheter. He was happy when he graduated to the hand held urinal, comfortable with John positioning him and holding the bottle for him. There was a pure and elemental pleasure in voiding his bladder without the catheter, the healthy and successful push of urine. The first time he accomplished this John had rewarded him with one of his enigmatic, almost-smiles.

"Good job, Finch."

"Thank you … it was wonderful," Harold admitted.

Harold didn't think of this as sexual contact though it was intimate and there was affection in it. He didn't think of his love for John in overtly sexual terms though he enjoyed being touched by him. His best sleep came when he closed his eyes while his friend was holding his hand or stroking his arm. Perhaps, he thought, it was reassurance, a talisman against bad dreams as much as a tactile pleasure.

There came an awakening that was more lucid. Harold felt more fully present in the warm room. He felt the weight of John's head pressing on his good leg and could see well enough the blurry outline of him leaning from his chair, his arm stretched along Harold's side and his head propped half on his own upper arm and half on Harold's thigh.

Harold stroked the arm tucked against him and couldn't resist touching John's hair, ruffling it with his fingertips. He felt him stir but John moved only to take the pressure off Harold's leg.

"That can't be comfortable," Harold said. John didn't comment but his head moved under Harold's hand not unlike Bear might push into petting he enjoyed.

Harold felt a little flutter of something, a whisper of understanding that John derived as much pleasure from his physical touch as he did from John's. So he continued to move his fingers through the silver-shot hair, feeling the contours and shapes of his head. John let himself be pet for a while and sighed before sitting up and stretching.

It seemed like each new touch they shared became a part of their normal interplay.

There came the happy, if painful, day that Harold got up from bed and made it slowly, with a walker and John's assistance, to the bathroom.

"Sitting for the whole deal is your best bet, Finch."

"I think you're probably right," he said, feeling the gun-shot thigh quivering under him.

"You're going to put your arms around my neck and I'm going to guide you down."

They'd used this lift and transfer method a number of times but this was the first time that John punctuated the end of it by pressing a kiss to the top of Harold's head. It was a little along the lines of a, "well done," sort of kiss; a token like a parent might offer to a child and yet Harold was keenly aware that it was … a kiss.

Pajama bottoms had been impractical with his injury and what Harold discovered his friends had dressed him in were the tops of pajamas he'd bought long ago for John; clothing he'd stocked in safe houses against sudden need. He didn't know if his friend had ever actually worn these items of clothing. The tops were too big for Harold but were comfortably soft and hung to mid thigh. John knelt by him and fixed the cloth up out of the way.

Harold steadied his breathing from the exertion, one hand on the sink beside him and the other on a grip bar recently installed in reach on the wall. He knew he needed to relax to void his bowels. This was a troublesome system to bring back online when there was pain medication and little real food with any bulk in his diet, but he'd felt ready.

"I'm going to keep you pointed in the right direction, Finch, so you don't squirt me while you're bearing down," John said. Harold nodded.

"Thanks," he said quietly. The long fingers guided his penis more than held it.

He didn't produce much but it was an empowering feeling and his grip relaxed without letting go of his supports as the toilet was flushed. He gazed downward, seeing John's hand was still between his thighs, still touching him but careful not to disturb the injury. He'd been so lucky the shot had missed his femoral artery but the damage was extensive, nevertheless. His heart was beating hard with the effort of passing the small stool but beginning to even out. And that's when he became aware of the blood flow shifting, swelling his flesh under John's fingers. The hand didn't move away as his cock came to life, stirring and stiffening … the fingers curled slowly around him and lightly stroked his shaft.

John looked up at him, as if to see how Harold felt about this.

"It's not going to be easy to piss like that, Harold," he teased gently.

"It's not going to get any easier if you keep … stroking it." He felt a very sweet rush of sensation, like an intimation of returning health as his cock got harder. Looking into John's handsome face, sensing the intent in his eyes, Harold felt another surge of arousal. John's free hand touched his bare calf. Harold's breath caught when John broke eye contact, dropping his head down.

Harold thought the warmth and wetness of John's mouth, the slide of his lips and broad tongue were the most exquisite sensations he had ever experienced. The pain in his leg became invisible as his consciousness centered on the incredible pleasure and all too soon he was overflowing into John's mouth.

"Oh my god," he groaned, letting go the grip bar, finding his friend's shoulder to hold onto.

"Easy now," John said. Harold felt wide open and undone. For long moments he waited for his pulse to settle and braced himself for the pain to reassert itself.

It took a while to empty his bladder and his wounded leg began to throb. When John helped him rise to his feet he didn't guide Harold to the walker. He lifted him carefully in his arms and carried him back to the bed. Harold could see his expression was distraught, brows slightly knit.

"Sorry, Finch. It was too long to keep you on that hard seat."

"John, I haven't felt anything that sweet in … maybe forever." This earned him a half smile as John settled him back in the bed. Harold used the remote to shift into more of an upright position, the pain subsiding from its most intense to a more manageable level. "I actually feel a little hungry now."

That earned him a full smile. The few minutes he had to himself while John was getting breakfast together, Harold rested into the pillows, his eyes shut, telling himself he must not make more of this kind overture than was meant. But his heart was soaring into unknown territory.

Tea and toast, scrambled eggs, it was like a feast. The sun was climbing higher in the sky as they ate, as if the rest of the world was catching up with their morning. How many times had he shared this casual activity with John. He felt the same companionable ease as ever but there was something new and bright and precious.

He felt alert as he hadn't since … since before. He watched John eat, watched him down coffee. He had to force himself to stop looking at him, especially at his mouth.

"Ms Shaw, she's working the numbers?" he asked, tentatively. John nodded.

"Is it hard to have her work them without you?"

"She's got plenty of help, Harold. I'm working my own number."

"Well, I'm grateful." He took a deep breath and felt himself blushing, not from shyness so much as a wealth of emotion.

 

***

"Maybe," Harold said, that evening, "I'm ready to sleep in the actual bed. You could sleep there with me."

"Soon," John said. "I don't want to roll over and crush you in the night, Finch."

"You can't keep sleeping in that chair."

"I'll stretch out on the couch."

Harold had gotten out of bed as often as he could that day, trying to build some strength. There was limited space in the apartment and the bilevel design was far from ideal.

"The steps keep you from sneaking out," John said.

Harold traveled the limited distance he could from the bed and back to it with the walker. His progress was very slow and quite painful but he could perceive tiny improvements. Each short walk was incrementally easier though he was aching fiercely by nightfall.

Ms Shaw appeared that evening with Chinese food and Bear in tow. She handed the food off to John and brought Bear to the bedside so Harold could reach him to pet while she changed the dressing on his leg and examined the wound.

"Looks good, Harold. I think you and the big guy can start thinking about a place for the long haul soon. No stairs, more room to move around. Some outdoor space. Get your asses out of the city for a while."

"What do you think of that, Bear?" Harold said, gazing into the dog's soulful eyes.

"Oh no," Shaw said. "He stays with me. Find some place close enough and we'll visit."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each time I think I'm writing the final chapter of this little fix-it there seems to be a need for more to bring it to a satisfactory ending. Here's hoping.

Harold's tastes normally ran toward older styles of architecture and design but the single-story Frank Lloyd Wright inspired home appealed to him; its modern lines were warmed by beautiful wood tones. The minimal number of stairs was a blessing. Partial walls defined the areas within, offering vast open space Harold could navigate with his walker or wheelchair.

The Long Island property was owned by Logan Pierce. Pierce had promised not to show up unannounced. The plan was to spend the rest of October and at least part of November there, enjoying the last of autumn. Nestled on a hilltop, the front of the house had magnificent views of the water.

"Now this," John said, guiding Harold's wheelchair to the bedroom area, "is a big enough bed for us to sleep in without any danger of you getting crushed." Harold was looking forward to sleeping with John, for the sake of his friend's comfort as much as to have him close in the night, even if he wasn't thrilled about the bed's original occupant.

"I'm not quite sure how I feel about our first night in bed together … being in Logan Pierce's bed," Harold said.

"As long as he's not in it … " John said.

Harold could sense John's shrug even if he couldn't see it.

He still felt a vague discomfort when he thought about Logan Pierce. That discomfort had a name, he knew. Jealousy. A younger man who could offer, who had, in fact, offered John many of the same things Harold could. He reminded himself that John had chosen. He could have been with Pierce then, he could be with him now, but he wasn't.

It was difficult to feel jealous when he was actually in the bed with John. Both of them were tired from the day of settling in, exploring, adapting to the changed environment. The salt in the air, the very freshness of it made Harold feel drowsy. John had suggested an early bedtime, taking them through the routines of preparing before they got too sleepy. Beyond arousal, Harold lay dreamily enjoying a broad hand caressing him.

Harold's new and much-treasured physical relationship with John was not the traditional, nighttime-in-bed lovemaking he had known with Grace. Impulse and mood, a surprising spontaneity was more likely to spur him and John toward one another.

He had not been allowed to reciprocate John's caresses with his mouth yet. In the beginning he wasn't even given the chance to touch him intimately. Finally, he'd insisted. It was in the middle of the night, maybe a week or so after John had begun pleasuring him daily with his mouth. Harold had awakened and lay still, wondering if he would fall back to sleep when he realized he was hearing faint groans, huffing breath, and he knew he was hearing his friend masturbate. It made him feel like he was being denied something he should be given.

"John," he spoke out in the dark and the silence was sudden. "Please come here." He listened to the rustle of sheets, imagined him straightening himself, covering himself. John appeared by the bed in a bathrobe and turned on the bedside light.

"What is it," he asked, concerned.

Harold couldn't help looking for evidence of his erection but forced his gaze up to John's face.

"Is there some reason you don't want me to touch you, sexually," he said, feeling his pulse quicken. "If there is, please tell me … I wish you would let me do something for you."

"It's … not necessary, Harold." John's gaze was affectionate.

"Not just for you," he tried to make it as plain as he could. "For me, John. I'm … dying to touch you."

The man had looked confused. As if Harold had spoken meaningless words. And then a smile had slowly appeared.

"You're dying to touch me," John said.

"That surprises you?" He could see that it did.

Harold, frustrated by his lack of mobility, gestured for John to come closer.

"Please," he said and John obeyed, sitting on the edge of the bed. Harold had stroked John's thigh, so grateful to finally be allowed. "Untie the robe for me," he'd requested, his voice gone quiet with excitement. The fabric fell away, revealing a swath of John's nakedness. Chest, stomach, and his glistening erection; food to Harold's hungry eyes.

He touched gently; the man was tautly aroused and made sounds that flooded Harold with longing. His mouth watered imagining what it would be like to suck him.

John reached down and stilled Harold's hand.

"No more. I don't want you to strain. Just hold me," he said, guiding Harold's hand down to cup his balls. "I'll do the work."

Then John revealed a secret.

From the pocket of the robe he produced a well-worn, soft handkerchief, one he must have saved when Harold discarded it. He held it to his lips as he stroked himself, he caressed himself with it, his eyes warm on Harold. At the end, he clutched it around his cock as he brought himself to climax. Harold watched, his body warm with shared arousal and his heart in his throat to see how his friend had been touching him, giving himself to him, by proxy, unknown.

John had a little stash of his handkerchiefs now -- he liked the ones that were softest with age and invariably carried one in his pocket. In the course of unpacking that afternoon, Harold had seen him drop a small stack of them into the bedside drawer. It made him smile.

Harold wished he could talk to his younger self. He'd been confused and sexually frustrated as a young man and he had believed the conventional wisdom that male sexuality peaked at 18. He remembered how it had depressed him to think about as the years slid by him, untouched. Then he'd loved Grace and at last he'd felt he would join the world of human sexuality. There was love and affection in their physical relationship and what it lacked in the passion he'd envisioned when he was young, he attributed to having begun so late in life. Now here he was in his fifties, experiencing the intensity of touch, the profound pleasure he'd dreamed of as a teenager.

The duvet was thick but feather light over them. Harold tried to stay awake that first night, savoring John's close naked presence, the hand stroking his arm, his chest, but the comfort was too deep, too seductive to resist.

***

The wound was healing and his strength was building. He could see his health reflected in John's behavior as October progressed; the man began to go for runs in the morning, hitting the trails through the scrubby pine forest bordering the property. He now trusted Harold could safely make his way around the house if he left him alone, though he never left him for long.

John was ruthless with Harold's physical therapy. There were great rewards in his increased mobility and it was not difficult to suffer through the exercise regimen when the pain was laced with caresses and massage. Desire, he learned, arousal, could lessen pain. Perhaps it only distracted, but he found motivation in it and his tough trainer was generous with loving incentives.

In November Harold was able to get around for longer periods of time with the cane.

He had been a little concerned that a convalescent existence would drive his friend crazy, especially without the distractions of the city. What he discovered was that John adapted to leisure and physical comfort as easily as he did to hardship.

I should have known, he thought, remembering warm afternoons in the library when John would quietly become absorbed in a book or patiently dismantle and clean weapons with meditative focus.

He was like a lion at rest, the power still apparent in his long body, sprawled on the ample couch. If the day was sunny, he almost always ended up asleep in a patch of warm rays in the afternoon. Harold loved to see this.

Neither of them of them could boast any particular culinary skills but Harold thought they did pretty well. They ate tons of vegetables, a lot of grains. John took a simple approach to fish that Harold enjoyed, skillet or oven, butter, spices. A weekly excursion to the bakery was a pleasant outing for them and satisfied the sweet tooth they shared.

Harold was surprised to discover that he was the one more eager to return to the city.

"I never should have let you pick up that newspaper," John sighed. They were sitting in the warm bakery. Harold hadn't been able to resist a New York Times left behind by another patron. He'd scanned the news. Aware of John watching him, he made a point of turning to the entertainment section.

"We said from the start that we'd only spend a month or so here and go back before the cold weather starts. Do you really want to shovel snow, John?"

"Snow's not so bad, Harold. It's … pretty."

They shared a gaze, both knowing the relative attractiveness of snow was completely beside the point. It was possible, Harold thought, that he was learning a lesson here about his companion. Maybe at heart John was not a city person, maybe he would be happier in a rural environment where life around them moved at a slower pace.

"If you prefer this lifestyle, I could be content with some weekends in the city," he offered. "As everyone is fond of pointing out, we're only twenty-five minutes away from Manhattan." John seemed to think about this and give in to some decision.

"You've been free here, Harold. Easy for me to keep an eye on. I don't want to see you caught back up in … all of it."

So, it had nothing to do with any preference for a type of environment; it was how John could control the environment to insulate him.

"I don't want that for you, either, John." If Harold never saw the man endangered again, forced to fight again, it would be too soon. "I promise that we're done with saving the world. But we could enjoy going to the movies, the opera … well, I could enjoy that. Seeing our friends."

"A couple of weekends," John finally agreed. "We'll see how it goes."


	4. Chapter 4

Harold moved through John’s loft, still favoring the injured side of his body but getting around their temporary home without a cane. They were still looking for a permanent address but not in a hurry. This space suited them both for the time being.

The old glass of the massive windows had been replaced with a modern bullet-proof variety before they moved in. It seemed like an unnecessary precaution to Harold but John had done it anyway, keeping him on Long Island until the job was finished.

His own sticking point on moving into the loft was the lethal pantry filled with weapons. Guns, grenades, ammunition, he wanted all of it gone. He knew his friend had held back a few pieces but fair was fair, he had quietly acquired a new laptop despite John’s computer ban, so he said nothing. The sleek new laptop had earned him a raised eyebrow but John seemed content to let it slide as long as it didn’t take over too much of his time and attention.

Harold made his way to the kitchen successfully. He leaned a little against the sink as he put water in the kettle for tea. Shaw called while he was waiting for the water to boil.

“Reese there?” she wanted to know.

“He’s out …” Harold began.

“Good, I’m coming over.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Nope,” she said, and the call ended. The years hadn’t done much for the woman’s social skills, he thought, but they had accustomed him to her ways. He got his laptop out, sure she wanted help with something. She wouldn’t want tea but she was always hungry. Harold was just closing the cupboard when she startled him, saying his name from close behind his back.

“Dear god, I wish you would not do that,” he said, feeling his heart settle back in his chest.

He’d tried a proximity alert keyed to her phone. Belling the cat, so to speak, but she tossed her phones too often to make it effective.

She plucked the package of imported beef jerky he’d been about to offer out of his hands. John had bought it for Bear treats but Harold declared it too spicy for the dog. “We’ll save it for Ms Shaw,” he’d said.

“This looks good,” she muttered. Harold was pleased he’d chosen the right recipient for the heavily spiced meat. He picked up his tea and moved slowly toward the table.

“What is it you need my help with?” he asked.

She didn’t try to deny that technical assistance was the reason for her visit. “This,” she said, handing him a thumb drive while he settled himself in front of the computer. 

“Where did it come from?”

“Former Samaritan op. The number is squared away but I took this off him.”

His computer came to life.

“The encryption is … quite interesting.” Harold felt his attention drawn in as if to a puzzle, the complexity was alluring. He wished he had multiple monitors to display the processes he set in motion. 

“Can you break it?” she asked.

“Given time … I believe so,” he said.

The apartment door opened. Harold sat back, his fingers coming off the keyboard. He watched John’s expression and knew the man was barely suppressing annoyance as he took in the two of them.

“Shaw, what are doing here? Besides eating dog food.”

“These are for the dog?” she said, around a mouthful, picking up the package to look at the label.

“No, no, they’re too spicy for Bear,” Harold said. “They’re for you.” He felt a twinge of pain in his hip and thigh as if his body reproached him as much as John’s eyes did.

John was ruddy-cheeked and carried the chill of outdoors with him as he reached Harold and bent down to kiss his forehead.

“You agreed,” John said. “Both of you. No numbers.”

“Relax. The number is a done deal,” she said.

“Then why are you sneaking in here behind my back?”

“Because … you’re kind of a dick,” she said. “This is something we picked up on the job that nobody’s been able to crack. Caleb suggested we show it to Mr Swift, here.” To Harold she said, “He still calls you that.”

It was clear to Harold that John didn’t like the situation, even without an active number involved. Too much like the past. A past Harold also wanted squarely behind them but this encryption was intriguing.

“I’m gonna hit the shower,” John said, turning away from them.

“I’ll make you coffee,” Harold offered as his friend retreated. Shaw rolled her eyes.

When John had disappeared into the bathroom, she got up and shoved the rest of the pack of jerky in her coat pocket.

“He’s turning you into Suzy Homemaker. I’ll check in later.”

“Please don’t feed those to Bear,” he reminded her as she headed out.

Harold got up from the table and walked carefully, stiffly, back into the kitchen. Suzy homemaker, indeed, he thought.

He hadn’t been sitting and looking at the screen that long but realized there was an intensity to the way his body froze in place when his mind became deeply engaged. Maybe, he considered, working while standing would mitigate some of that. He didn’t consider not working on the files, in fact he planned to dive into them as soon as the coffee for John was started.

***

“Have you figured it out yet, Finch?” John was out of the shower, dressed. Harold was hyper aware of being watched while he worked.

“I cracked the encryption,” he said slowly without looking up, sensing the window of John’s tolerance closing. “Some of the files appear to be related to an AI program.” With that he did glance up to see if he’d succeeded in interesting him in the matter.

“Samaritan?” John asked, brows knitting slightly.

“I don’t think so.” His eyes were drawn back to the screen, trying to see how what seemed like a jumble of unrelated strands might fit together.

He heard John sigh and get up from the table. Harold knew he should stop working, could feel his body protesting the immobility of his posture, but it was hard to stop. He sensed John behind him and then felt the broad warm hands on his shoulders. Harold’s eyes closed almost involuntarily as John found the melting points in his upper back.

“Time to move away from the laptop,” John said.

Harold drew a deep breath and heard a little pleasure moan come out of his own mouth as a thumb pressed into just the right spot.

John was as gifted, as intuitive where the body was concerned, he thought, as he himself was with the language of computers.

He let himself be helped up and guided to walk a circuit of the loft, stretching his tensed muscles. Suddenly, the coding in the files took sensible shape in his mind.

“An android,” he said aloud, stopping in place.

“Walk, Harold. Let’s do another circuit.” Harold resumed his walk, relieved that the pieces were falling into place in his mind. The disparate files made a kind of sense now, some relating to cognitive functions, others to …

“John, I’m fairly certain that someone is working on the creation of an android.”

“Isn’t that just a fancy word for robot?”

“It is … and it isn’t.” He stopped where his friend had guided him to the massage table near their bed. Once the table had been set up it had never been packed away again.

“Forward,” John said. Harold was relieved to lower his upper body to the padded surface, familiar with this routine and the position that supported most of his weight while his skillful companion gently manipulated the muscles in his hips, thighs and lower back.

“Those schematics … if I’m right, are for containing an AI in something resembling a human body.”

“Is it something we should be concerned about? Is it connected to Samaritan?”

John’s hands had paused on Harold’s hips.

“She said it came from a former operative, but there are none of the signatures in the code,” he said. “Samaritan is gone, John.” Harold levered himself upright slowly. “But there are undoubtedly other researchers who were probably engaged with Samaritan or Decima at some point. Other projects.”

He saw an unspoken world of thoughts in John’s face. Fear that he was being drawn in; the warmth of his love in his gaze. Ultimately, in the quiet pause Harold thought he saw his friend accepting something.

“If you work on this, Harold, there have to be ground rules.”

“Whatever you say,” he assured him. John barely smiled.

“That seems … very unlikely. But, it’s a start,” the man murmured, reaching for him.

Harold was happy to let himself be drawn into John’s arms. He closed his eyes when a kiss touched his forehead. “I heard that Suzy Homemaker crack,” John whispered between kisses along Harold’s hairline. “If only it was true.”

Harold smiled as he hugged him. This was the way their lives would unfold, he thought. He’d work. His beloved friend would guard him. Harold would exercise caution and John would protect him, not just from dangers without but from the harm old habits might cause. They were who they were but Harold knew in his heart that they would not repeat the past because the future held something warm and brilliant between them that lit the way forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May they live long and prosper!

**Author's Note:**

> My medical knowledge is non-existent so please forgive inaccuracies. It's a fantasy about fictitious characters and situations!


End file.
